


Good Enough

by Marrilyn



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Caring Mama Rowena, Crying, Disappointment, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Hugs, Spell Failure, Tears, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2020-03-29 23:09:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19029844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marrilyn/pseuds/Marrilyn
Summary: You think you're a failure. Rowena begs to disagree.





	Good Enough

You'd been working on this spell for days, but no matter how hard you tried, how much of yourself you gave to it, how many nights you'd spent practicing instead of sleeping, it wasn't going right.

At times it felt like the spell itself was mocking you, refusing to work the way it was supposed to for no reason other than to spite you. Mock you. Insult you.

It was a childish thought, but you couldn't help it. You'd slept badly for days, the failure hanging over you like a shadow; a nasty one, full of mockery, of ridicule, of shame that, no matter how many times you told yourself it wasn't a big deal, that it was just a spell, refused to go away.

The truth was, it _was_ a big deal. It was a _huge_ deal.

Rowena hadn't spent years teaching someone who couldn't cast a simple damn spell.

You spat out the Latin words for what seemed like the millionth time. Magic stirred inside you, warm as fresh coffee in your veins. It built up, spilled out of you, around you, that familiar rush that came with each and every use of your magic coursing through you, filling you up with what almost felt like a high, a wild burst of energy.

You had it, you thought. It might — finally! — work.

It didn't.

Nothing happened.

No flickering lights. No gush of wind. No movie-like badassery that accompanied the spell every time Rowena cast it.

Not even a single shiver.

Nothing.

It was official — you were a failure.

The magic high died down, replaced by anger, by rage that felt as if it could call forth the deadliest of storms.

One, a particularly nasty one, was brewing inside of you. Hell hath no fury like a woman disappointed in herself.

You grabbed a candle off the table in front of you, the wax smooth underneath your fingertips, and threw it down. Not caring about potentially causing a fire. Not caring that these candles were custom made, expensive. Not caring that you were throwing a tantrum like a spoiled brat whose mother refused to buy her a toy she wanted.

Nothing mattered.

Nothing other than that you were a failure and you hated it and you hated how patient Rowena was because it only made you hate it — hate yourself — more.

She was the deadliest witch around. One of the most powerful witches in the world. Skilled. Smart. Intelligent. Brimming with knowledge she'd acquired throughout centuries, passed on to her straight from the greats of witchcraft.

She deserved better than a girlfriend who couldn't master a relatively easy spell.

Four years of studying under her, three of which you'd been in a relationship, and you'd spent the majority of them struggling. Every single thing she'd teach you, you needed time. Time and tremendous effort until you figured it out. There was rarely a spell you mastered right away. Usually, it took attempt after attempt after attempt for you to get it right.

How Rowena managed to put up with it so calmly, so patiently, without wanting to cave your face in with a crowbar, you didn't know.

And now this. Almost a week, and no results. Not even a sliver.

If you were Rowena, you would have been pissed.

You _were_ pissed.

You threw down another candle. Then a crystal. Your empty cup of coffee. Plate. Everything that happened to be within reach.

Snarls that sounded inhuman followed your every action. You hated those items. Hated this house, this table, the pictures hanging on the walls. Hated the rain and the drenched, lonely streets, and the planet Earth itself for forcing you to live on it.

Most of all, you hated yourself.

You hated your lack of talent Rowena seemed convinced you had (she most likely said that to make you feel better). Hated your inability to live up to the magic that coursed through your veins; the magic you were born with, that should have thrived by this point in your life instead of hanging off you like a limp, barely useful limb. Your inadequacy to cast spells, to unleash your magic in a way you wanted. Your complete and utter mediocrity.

You were a terrible witch. The sooner you admitted it, the better.

Releasing another blood-curdling snarl, you stomped out the still lit wicks of the candles laying at your feet. Limp. Useless. Just like you.

You threw a look at the mess around you and your eyes brimmed with tears. You did this. You caused it. You ruined everything, just like you always did.

Why couldn't you do anything right?

A feeling of helplessness washed over you in a wave of goosebumps and an invisible fist closing around your heart, holding tight, so tight you feared it would explode.

What you hated the most, you realized, wasn't your poor spell-casting.

It was your inability to remedy it, to fix it. To better yourself and your magic.

Bitter tears spilled down your cheeks. You fell to your knees amidst the ruckus of broken ceramic and wax and cried your heart out. And cried and cried and cried, repeatedly, helplessly. Wailed like a banshee for as much as your aching throat allowed.

You were a failure.

You were a failure.

The thought roiled in your brain, occupied your mind, pushing everything else, good and bad and normal, in the background. Overwhelming you.

Making you cry even harder.

You were a failure.

You were a failure.

You were a failure.

The more you repeated it, the sooner it would sink in. And as it did so, the easier it would be to accept it. To live with it.

You were a failure.

_I'm a failure._

"What in hell happened here?" Rowena shrieked, confused, bewildered. Lost in her own home, unable to comprehend what had transpired in the short few hours that she was gone.

Shopping bags, full to the brim with what was no doubt clothing, footwear, and jewelry she'd rarely, if ever, wear, slipped from her suddenly limp fingers. She stood, motionless, a statue, eyes scanning the room like cameras, taking in the ruckus, the destruction, the mess that didn't belong there. It was foreign. Unsettling.

A cause for concern.

Rowena's face softened with it, twisted into a look that was more that of a mother than a lover. Mother bear, protective to death and just as loving, just as nurturing.

"Nothing," you said softly. Too softly. Too quietly. Your voice was hoarse, traitorous.

Then again, you never could lie to her. Not convincingly.

Rowena gave a small huff, making it clear she didn't believe you. "Are you well?"

You considered lying — or trying to, at least — but you dismissed it right away. There was no use. No point in trying — horribly — to conceal the obvious.

In a small, small voice, you whimpered, "No."

And then you were sobbing again, as if the weight of the world had crashed into you, overwhelmed you, took you over until there was nothing you could do but cry one bitter tear after another, inconsolable, crushed, broken.

And weak. So fucking weak that you didn't even have it in you to be embarrassed about it. Shame mattered very little when you had nothing to lose.

When you were a failure.

Rowena knew that. She had to have picked up on it over the years. It was time she saw just how pathetic you were.

In a few clicks of heels, her arms were around you. Warm, protective, safe. You melted into the embrace, gave yourself over to it. Cried your frustrations out into her blouse in a loud, snotty mess, like an inconsolable child. Her heart beat against your ear, a soft, soothing melody that put you at ease, kept you grounded, reminded you that she was here and she loved you and she would never let anything happen to you.

Failure, though, she couldn't remedy. Not when it was natural, inborn.

"I'm right here, darling," Rowena whispered in the loving, nurturing voice of a mother. "I'm right here. Whatever it is, it's going to be okay."

No, it wasn't. It would never be okay. You couldn't be fixed.

Moving her hands to your shoulders, she helped you to your feet and seated you on the couch. You pulled away, crossing your arms over your knees in a nest, and lowered your head into your forearms. Hiding your eyes. Hiding the shame they gave away.

"Are you going to tell me what's wrong?" Rowena asked, laying a hand on your bare shoulder. Her skin was warm, comforting, touch impossibly soft.

"I'm a failure," you whimpered.

"Now why would you think that?"

She didn't believe you. Good ol' Rowena, convinced you were a great witch when you were at the bottom of the barrel, dirt beneath her shoes.

"I can't do the spell," you said. "I've been trying all week, and it's not working!"

A sob, loud, breathy, tore from your throat.

Rowena sighed. "Still on that spell?"

"I can't do it!" you repeated hysterically. "I suck."

That prompted her to chuckle. "Darling, I assure you you do not _suck."_ The word sounded strange, foreign, coming from her mouth. "It's a difficult spell."

"No, it's not."

"Yes, it is."

"You don't have issues with it."

"Not anymore. When I first started, though, it took me almost a month to cast it right."

You raised your head, looked her in the eyes in search of deception. All you found was honesty. "A month?"

"Aye," she confirmed. "I can see how it can seem easy. I thought it was easy, as well. But it's actually quite complicated. Some witches I knew back then still struggle with it to this day."

You were flabbergasted. "Really?"

Rowena nodded. "It's _very_ difficult. And not even all that useful. Why are you so upset over it? I only showed it to you as practice. I never wanted you to perfect it."

You had to admit you felt a bit stupid. Witches older than you, more powerful than you, had trouble casting that spell. It was no wonder it wasn't working for you.

Still, that didn't change the fact that you struggled with other spells. With _every_ spell.

"It's not just this spell," you said. "Every time you try to teach me something new, I never get it."

Rowena frowned, confused. "What are you talking about? So far you've mastered everything I've taught you."

"After days of practice," you pointed out. "I was never just good at anything."

She blinked. Once, twice, three times. Stared at you as if you were an alien, an impostor. "I think you've got some unrealistic expectations, love."

You chuckled bitterly. "Don't sugar-coat it. I know I'm a bad witch."

"No, you are not, and I would appreciate it if you stopped talking such nonsense," Rowena said. You scoffed. She rolled her eyes. "Nobody is instantly good at everything. Especially magic."

"You are."

The compliment flattered her, but she willed her expression to remain stern, serious. "Not even me. All I know, I've worked my arse off to learn. I was born powerful, but I wasn't born with knowledge. Nobody is. Power means nothing if you can't harness it. To do that, you have to learn. And practice. Practice is everything."

When she said it like that, it made sense.

"Yeah, but…"

But you still hated that you had to work so hard when everything seemed so easy for her.

"Were you instantly good at everything at school?" Rowena asked.

"Well, no."

"There you go."

"This is different," you argued.

"How so?"

You shrugged nervously. "Because." Because you weren't in a relationship with your teachers. You weren't in love with them. You didn't want to impress them. _"You're_ my teacher."

Understanding dawned on her face, pieces of the puzzle falling in their rightful place. "Y/N," she said gently, patiently, "I don't want you to be perfect. I never wanted that."

"But I wanna be" — perfect — "good for you."

"You've been more than good for me since day one," she told you. "I wouldn't have let you study under me if I didn't think you were."

Back then you weren't even dating. Rowena was that cold, calculating bitch everyone hated and no one wanted to be near. You were a crazy girl who saw something in her. When she agreed to teach you the ways of magic, it was the best day of your life.

Never, in your wildest fantasies, did you think it would turn out like this. That the heartless bitch would learn to love again, and love _you_ at that. That she would be this sweetheart, this absolute sunshine that brightened your every day. That she would comfort you and look after you.

You were a brat. A stupid, tantrum-throwing brat. Your cheeks burned with shame as you looked around at the mess you'd made. Brat, brat, brat. Disgraceful.

"I feel so stupid," you admitted. A few tears (shameful ones this time) slid down your swollen cheeks.

"You're not stupid," Rowena assured you. She reached for your hand and squeezed it. A tinge of regret, of guilt, flashed over her face. "I… I'm sorry if I ever made you feel like you have to be perfect. I think you're a powerful witch, and I love you as you are. It was never my intention to make you think you're lacking."

"You didn't," you said. "I guess I just… I thought I wasn't good enough. For you."

"Never think that! You're more than good. One difficult spell doesn't change that."

You nodded, taking the words in. Absorbing them like a sponge. You were powerful. She loved you.

What more could you ask for?

"Why don't we clean this up, and then you can try on the things I got you?" Rowena suggested.

Your face instantly lit up. "You got me clothes?"

"Why, of course," she said, flashing a grin. "You know I always think of you."

She did. Because she cherished you. Appreciated you. Respected you.

Loved you to the moon and back just the way you were.


End file.
